The Heiress In His Bed. Tamara LejeuneЧитать онлайн книгу.
“The marchioness condescended to visit me before she left Town,” Lady Devize said proudly. “She begged me to put an end to your shocking interference, Julian. She also gave me to understand that you had been making love to her daughter!”
“Shame on you, Julian!” cried Perdita. “You randy little stockjobber, you.”
“Belinda Belphrey is a mere child,” Julian said repressively.
“Lady Bamph has threatened to give me the Cut Direct if your interference continues,” the baroness complained. “With the Jerseyites against me, I would never recover. The doors of Society would be closed to me forever. Julian, you must make sure that Lord Bamph gets every penny of Lady Viola’s fortune when he marries her, or else I am ruined. Do you understand?”
“Madam, I am employed by the Duke of Fanshawe. I am bound to serve his interests.”
“You are my son,” snapped Lady Devize. “You ought to serve my interests. What do you care about Lady Viola? Lord Cheviot has met her on several occasions. Apparently, she is something of a grotesque.”
“Now, Mama,” Perdita chided her. “We don’t know that she is precisely ugly. My husband is far too chivalrous to call a lady ugly.”
“Of course she’s hideously ugly,” the baroness insisted. “Why else has she never been presented at Court? Depend upon it—she has a hunchback, a squint, a clubfoot, a harelip, leprosy! I don’t know what exactly, but there’s definitely something wrong with her.”
“She cannot be physically deformed,” Perdita protested. “She couldn’t shoot with a squint, and she couldn’t ride with a clubfoot or a hump. And Tony has told me she does both very well. He’s been to several shooting parties at their place in Scotland, and she always goes out with the gentlemen. She plays billiards, too. She’s just like one of the men, he says.”
“I don’t approve of women who shoot,” sniffed the baroness.
“Birds or billiards?” Julian asked her.
“Neither, sir!” flashed the baroness. “It is unwomanly. However, she is very rich,” she went on in a more complacent tone, “and we must make allowances for the very rich.”
“Of course,” said Julian.
“Just how rich is she, Julian?” Perdita asked. “Strictly entre nous, of course.”
“I am not at liberty to divulge any information about my clients.”
“Please, Julian! We won’t tell a soul, will we, Mama?” said Perdita.
“No, indeed,” promised the baroness. “We will be silent as the grave.”
“You’ll have to be,” Julian said dryly, “because I’m not telling you anything.”
“I hear she has millions,” Perdita said provocatively.
“What a bunch of arse,” Julian scoffed.
“A gentleman does not use such language in front of ladies,” the baroness said coldly.
“You ladies say whatever you please, I’ve noticed,” he retorted.
The carriage jogged on, its occupants falling silent as Lombard Street became Newgate Street, and Newgate Street became Oxford Street. Finally, the carriage turned north into Portland Place. They had arrived in good time, having missed the early morning tradesmen’s traffic on Oxford Street. It was just nine o’clock, and the gentry were not yet stirring. Portland Place looked deserted.
“You must knock three times on the door and give the password.” The baroness took her writing tablet from her reticule to check her information. “Today’s password is ‘Whistle-jacket.’ The woman who runs the place is called Dean. She is a poor widow, very deeply in debt, of course, but that is no excuse. Ask for Alexander Pope. That is your brother’s alias.”
“My compliments to your spies, madam,” said Julian, half-impressed, half-dismayed.
“Make your brother presentable, then send him to me at the top of Portland Place. And don’t dawdle,” she added as Julian opened the carriage door. “It’s a long way to Sussex. Drive on,” she commanded her coachman almost before Julian’s feet had touched the ground.
As instructed, Julian gave the password to the manservant who answered the door. He was admitted into a hall dominated by a round divan upholstered in crimson velvet. The walls were bright pink. The carpet had been worn thin by constant traffic. On the walls were lurid pictures. Julian recognized the usual subject matter. Leda and the Swan. Danae and the shower of gold. A truly bad copy of Rubens’s Rape of the Sabine Women. The cumulative effect of all this naked female flesh was about as erotic to him as a pile of old doorknobs.
“I’m looking for Mr Alexander Pope,” he politely explained to the manservant, who looked like a former prizefighter, complete with crooked nose and cauliflower ear.
“Wait ’ere,” the man mumbled, indicating the round divan.
“I’d rather not,” Julian said quickly, eyeing the divan with suspicion. “Wait here, that is. Is there a room—an empty room, I mean—where I might wait?”
The servant opened the door beside the staircase then trudged up the stairs. The room revealed was as garishly furnished as the hall, albeit in shades of purple rather than pink and scarlet. A cloying perfume hung in the air, mixed noxiously with smoke and stale tobacco. Painted satyrs leered from the walls while nymphs writhed in what appeared to be pain but was probably meant to be ecstasy.
On the positive side, the curtains were open, admitting bright, cleansing sunshine through reasonably clean windows. As Julian entered the room, he noticed a well-fed fluffy white puppy stretched out on the rug. She lifted her head briefly and silently, looking at him with curious, almond-shaped black eyes before returning to the glove upon which she was cutting her teeth.
Completely disarmed, Julian dropped his hat on a table and knelt down beside her on the rug. He had grown up with mastiffs, but he was not disdainful of lapdogs. She looked well cared for, he was pleased to see, and there was a big bow around her neck. One side of the ribbon was deep purple, while the other side was striped lavender and white.
“What’s that you have there, miss?” he scolded her gently. A minor struggle ensued, but, in the end, Julian came away with a woman’s kid glove, dyed lavender. The puppy had chewed off all the buttons, and she was not at all apologetic.
“There you are, you naughty thing!” a girl’s voice scolded from the doorway.
Jumping to his feet, Julian turned to feast his eyes on at a tall, dark-eyed young beauty. Her skin had almost an olive cast to it, which gave her an exotic look, but her English was perfectly refined. She wore her jet-black hair in a braided crown that allowed not even the tiniest ringlet to escape, but the severity of the style suited her. He liked her arrogant little nose and her stubborn little chin. Her red lips also interested him. While knowing nothing of ladies’ fashions, he very much approved of the way her purple and white striped gown fitted her full breasts and slender waist before flaring over what promised to be slim, athletic haunches. Everything about her tempted him, and yet she did not look at all like a prostitute. Quite the opposite, in fact. She looked as if she had been kept all her life in a locked glass case, clearly marked: FOR DISPLAY ONLY. She was quite as unexpected as the puppy, and, again, Julian was completely disarmed.
“I protest,” he said, smiling at her. “I am not a naughty thing. Well, not very naughty.”
“Come, Bijou!” she said to the puppy; she couldn’t even be bothered to frown at Julian.
In response, the little dog wagged her tail politely and tilted her head to one side.
“I don’t think she knows how to come yet,” Julian said cheekily. “I don’t think she knows her name, either.”
Still ignoring him, the beauty went